


Rearranged

by Itsallfine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Spanking, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Penis Friday, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, gratuitous Sherlock arse, seriously so much wanking, very minor comeplay, wow a whole lot of feelings came out at the end there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chairs in 221b get rearranged as part of an experiment. John gets a whole new view of Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rearranged

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be exclusively porny, but it became porn with a whole lot of feels near the end. Then some really filthy sex, wow, nice. Hope you enjoy! Thanks to sassy1121 for the super quick and dirty beta. All mistakes are mine, mine, mine. If you need to get a handle on the layout of 221b, [here's a panoramic view of the sitting room](http://www.empireonline.com/features/sherlock-apartment), and [here's the layout of the flat](http://41.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m7yitbPRo31rorqs9o2_1280.jpg). 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr for ficlets, screaming, and general shenanigans: [librarylock](http://librarylock.tumblr.com/).

Living with Sherlock Holmes was an exercise in adaptation. John had become an expert at building his life around the shape of Sherlock’s sulks, swanning, and studies. Body parts in the fridge no longer merited more than a small nose scrunch, so long as they were properly labeled and contained. Refusal to eat was met with a quietly placed order for Sherlock’s favorite Thai takeout. Soliloquies with accompanying theatrics were deftly side-stepped and fondly smiled upon. John was a master of life and death and danger—and of living with Sherlock.

John made it all the way through his morning tea ritual before he noticed the change. He was sleep-warm and relaxed, ambling through his routine with only minor course corrections to account for the science in progress on the kitchen table. No longer working for the clinic. No case on. A perfect lazy Sunday morning. John took his mug in one hand and the newspaper in the other and padded into the sitting room, already thinking ahead to a hot shower and a heavy comforting lunch.

He stopped.

His chair had been moved.

For years, John and Sherlock’s chairs had sat in the same place, excepting the brief point during John’s (disastrous, painful, short) marriage when his chair had lived out of sight. Sherlock’s squishy grey leather chair always sat facing the kitchen. John’s lumpy red patterned chair always sat facing the window. Both were nestled up near the fireplace to ensure warm toes in the winter. The position of those chairs had long reflected the state of things in 221B. Pushed together, turned away, closer to the fire. Gone, then back again.

The status quo had been upended. John’s chair sat where Sherlock’s had been, facing directly into the kitchen with the window at its back. Sherlock’s now sat next to it, where the third wooden desk chair had once sat tucked up under the table. It was different. It was strange.

John shrugged and sat down. He set his teacup down on the little round end table, unfolded his newspaper, and settled into the familiar contours of his chair. A small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. The click of Sherlock’s bedroom door was too perfectly timed to be coincidental.

“Felt the urge to redecorate, then?” he called over the top of his newspaper.

Sherlock swept into the kitchen, fully suited up with his dressing gown wafting behind him. Been up for a while, then. Probably moved the chairs at three in the morning, with no regard for Mrs. Hudson’s sleeping schedule. Sherlock’s only reply was a noncommittal _hmm_.

“Sherlock?”

An annoyed hand wave. “Needed to be able to see into the kitchen. Your chair was blocking my sight line.”

John’s turn to _hmm_. “So is this a permanent change?”

“Until the experiment is concluded,” Sherlock said, distracted. With his back to John, he leaned over the table to peer at a set of petri dishes, his dressing gown hanging loose around his legs and sides. John looked up more fully.

The outline of Sherlock’s arse was barely visible through the drape of the dressing gown, but it was there, aimed right at him.

John’s cock gave a twitch of interest.

_Oh, no._

The altered chair arrangement was going to be… problematic.

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, after a day of errands for John and a trip to Barts for Sherlock, the two men sat quietly in their respective chairs, reading and letting their takeout Chinese dinner settle in their stomachs. John was already used to the new chair arrangement, and even quite liked the openness it created in the sitting room. There was only one problem.

“How’s your experiment going, Sherlock?” John asked, turning a page in his crime novel of the week.

Sherlock sat bolt upright. “Oh, I nearly forgot to check. Thank you, John.” He lept from his chair, tossing his apiology textbook carelessly behind him, and pranced across the threshold to the kitchen. John realised his mistake at the same time he realised Sherlock had actually said _thank you_.

Sherlock bent over the kitchen table to begin his inspection, his trousers snug around his arse, the view unobstructed by any dressing gown or suit jacket this time.

John blew out a slow, inaudible breath as his blood flow made a sudden detour. _Not good, not good…_

“You reminded me just in time, John,” Sherlock said, startling John out of his fixation. “I nearly missed recording a crucial data point.”

And then, to John’s growing horror (and growing _other_ things), Sherlock leaned over even farther, bracing himself on one forearm while he scribbled notes in his lab notebook. The fabric of his trousers stretched obscenely over his deliciously round arse, and John’s mind decided to take a break, letting his dick take over. A new fantasy flashed through his brain every few seconds: smacking that gorgeous arse, rutting against Sherlock with him bent over the table, touching himself right here, right _now_ , damn it—

“John?”

He dropped his book into his lap in an instant, hiding his throbbing hardness between the pages. “Yeah?” he asked, wincing when his voice came out with a bit of a rasp.

“I said, I’m going to have to go back to Barts for another set of samples. Do you want to join me?”

 _That would involve getting out of this chair right now, so no,_ John thought, but instead he said: “No, you go ahead. I think it’s going to be an early night for me.”

Sherlock nodded, then threw his suit jacket around his shoulders. “In that case: goodnight, John.”

But before he left, he bent over the table one last time, gathering his notes. When he stood upright again, John could swear Sherlock had a tiny smirk on his face. Slowly, faintly, a suspicion was born in the corner of John’s mind. But there were more pressing problems.

Sherlock wasn’t gone thirty seconds before John barrelled up to his room for a few moments of privacy.

 

* * *

 

The next day, John woke with a hard cock and a vow to get his libido under control. A few deep breaths, and he ignored the throbbing between his legs, managed to stumble into the shower unseen. Cold water, full blast, thoughts of Mary—yep, that did it. Ready for another day, boner-free and committed to not staring at Sherlock’s… anything.

Normal morning routine: take two. Tea, newspaper, no case, no work. Inconveniently placed chair, but that was fine. He’d just turn on the television and distract himself with crap telly. _That’s one benefit of this, at least,_ John thought, settling in to enjoy his perfect view of the television.

It couldn’t last.

Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen, face still creased from his pillow, dressed only in a soft pair of low-slung pyjama bottoms. Gorgeous chest, the line of his shoulders, taut stomach—John had seen it all before, but it was made all the worse because Sherlock’s sharp hip bones also made an appearance. They poked out above the waistband of the pyjama bottoms, forming a tantalising v-shape that invited John’s gaze further south… where a bit of Sherlock’s morning wood had yet to fade completely away. Just a slight bulge, but it was enough to make John’s cock ache in sympathy, reminded of its own earlier neglect. His hands itched to fit themselves to those perfect hips, to grab on and—

John forced his gaze back to the television screen, let the inane yammering of the political pundits fill his attention. There was absolutely nothing sexy about David Cameron. Nothing about the newscasters’ droning voices, nothing about the… except he could see from the corner of his eye. Sherlock was bending over the table again, inspecting his experiment, and those damned pyjamas were barely clinging to his hips. They were lower than before, as though the slightest touch would send them slipping to the cold kitchen tile. John wanted more than anything to reach out, to cup Sherlock through the thin cotton, feel his warmth, see how fast he’d get fully hard—

“What are you working on that requires so much—” John caught himself right before he said it. He couldn’t really admit he’d noticed how much Sherlock had been sticking his arse in the air. You can’t just _ask_ someone why they keep bending over. “—movement,” he finished instead. “Normally you just sit there and stare into your microscope.”

Sherlock froze for a moment, then continued on, shifting a stack of papers. “These samples cannot be moved.” And apparently that was all he had to say.

John let out a faint shuddering breath, his cock straining painfully against the zip of his trousers. _Should’ve had that wank this morning, damn it._ He ensured that his lap was completely blocked by his newspaper, then reached down to adjust himself and nearly gasped at the contact of his own hand. A quick shift to relieve the pressure turned into a bit of a lingering touch. Then, guiltily, a longer grind against the heel of his hand. Pleasure tightened low in his belly, simmering hot and persistent. _This is so bad. This is so, so bad._ John’s eyes flicked to the stairs. Maybe he could…

Then Sherlock shifted, and John snatched his hand away from his crotch like he’d been burned. But no, he hadn’t been caught, Sherlock was just… was…

Leaning farther over the table, its edge biting into the front of his thighs, his arse perfectly presented for John’s viewing pleasure. Sherlock was practically lying flat on the tabletop, picking up sheet after sheet of notes, skimming each one, then moving on to the next. Why couldn’t he just walk around to the other side of the table like a normal human?

John clutched the newspaper in front of his crotch like a shield and rubbed helplessly at the front of his trousers with the heel of his hand. Not like the paper would provide any real help. If Sherlock turned around right now, he’d know instantly what was going on, could read it in John’s flushed face, his rapid breathing and hammering pulse.

He couldn’t make himself care. Besides, he had a theory.

John ground himself against the palm of his hand, directing all his focus into a desperate wish for Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms to lose their war with gravity. No lines meant no pants, which meant that a weak piece of elastic was all that separated him from Sherlock’s bare arse. His balls tightened at the thought, and he rubbed harder, committed to the wank, past the point of no return. It was so wrong, and so good, and then Sherlock _spread his legs even farther_ , leaned over and braced himself on the table with a very _deliberate_ undulation of his hips.

John came hard under his grinding palm, the warmth of his release soaking through his trousers like he was in middle school again. It took every ounce of self-control to contain his groan, to keep his breathing as normal as possible. He stumbled to his feet, still coming down from the orgasm, and clutched the newspaper to his front.

He could have been imagining it, but John could have sworn that in the shadows under the kitchen table, Sherlock’s cock was tenting his pyjamas.

“I want to read that newspaper,” Sherlock rumbled, his eyes still fixed on his lab notes.

“You’ll get it back when I’m done with it.” John stumbled back upstairs, the newspaper held in front of his crotch, ashamed and euphoric and just a tiny bit hopeful.

 

* * *

 

John didn’t see Sherlock for the rest of the day.

He did his best to ignore the twist of disappointment in his gut as he ate dinner alone in front of the telly in his dressing gown and pyjamas. He wasn’t seriously expecting Sherlock to come out and bend over for him so he could get off on it. Only… he sort of was. He’d convinced himself, been so sure, that Sherlock was doing it intentionally. Getting him riled up. Provoking him. Taking it a step further each time. He’d anticipated Sherlock’s next move with fluttering nerves and a bone-deep hunger. But as the clock hit ten in the evening, he had to allow the thought that maybe he’d only seen what he wanted to see.

Then Sherlock came barrelling out of the bathroom in nothing but a pair of tight black boxer briefs. His skin was flushed and damp from his shower, and his curls flopped sodden against his forehead. He skidded into the kitchen, glanced down at the table, then spun to fix John with a fierce glare.

“You were supposed to remind me! Now I’ll be lucky if the whole data set isn’t thrown off,” Sherlock snapped, but his eyes were… something. Challenging? Maybe even… playful?

A slow smile spread over John’s face, and he allowed his eyes to wander down Sherlock’s bare chest, over the faint trail of hair leading down to… the half-hard cock filling out the front of his pants. _Mmm. Progressing on schedule, then._ He set his dinner plate aside and sprawled back in his chair, letting his legs fall open. He could already feel the blood rushing between his thighs.

“I suppose this is one of those things you told me when I wasn’t actually around, considering I haven’t seen you all day.” He paused, licked his lips, then met Sherlock’s eyes again. “You’ve been awfully forgetful lately, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave a haughty sniff, but John didn’t miss the tiny curl of smile at the corner of his mouth. Yes, we both know the game. “Well, perhaps I have more important matters on my mind. All the same, I’ve begun this experiment and I intend to see it through to the end. Tomorrow morning should be the last… data collection. By then the results should be clear.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. He’d rather thought that a wet Sherlock in posh, sexy underwear was the final move of the game, but if not… well. John settled in to enjoy the view, his hand coming to rest high on the top of his thigh. “Well then, by all means, don’t let me keep you from your experiment.”

Sherlock’s answering smile was a wicked thing. He tossed his head to fling his wet curls out of his eyes, turned his back to John, stretched to flex the beautiful muscles of his back… and John didn’t even bother hiding his too-loud exhale as Sherlock finally bent over the table, his arse gloriously displayed for John. And the best part was, Sherlock _knew_.

The black pants were half-soaked from being worn too soon after the shower, clinging to Sherlock’s arse and thighs in a way that was pure sex. John watched as a drop of water from the curl at the nape of Sherlock’s neck dripped free, traced its way slowly down Sherlock’s beautifully-arched spine, and disappeared down past the black waistband. John’s pyjama bottoms did nothing to hide his erection, now fully hard and demanding attention. But this time, fortunately, there was no need to hide.

John reached into his pants and gripped his cock, right there in the middle of the sitting room, and gave it a long, firm stroke.

Something in the sound of his breathing must have given him away, because Sherlock groaned faintly from the kitchen, arching his back even more so his arse was prominently displayed. His legs shuffled wider, toned calves, muscled thighs, absolutely delicious. John pulled his cock all the way out into the open, momentarily stunned by his bare prick being so close to Sherlock’s barely-clothed body. And his cock knew it, too, surging in his fist, growing ever harder. The friction was too much, though. Could he really— _ah, fuck it_.

John reached into the drawer by his chair and pulled out the tube of hand lotion he kept there for the dry winter months. The click of the cap was loud over their laboured breathing, but Sherlock _knew_ , so did it really matter? He slicked his cock, imagining for a moment that he was lubing himself up for a completely different activity.

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice rough and low. “I think you dropped something under the table.”

“Oh?” Sherlock breathed, shuffling back to bend over farther and peek under. “I think you’re correct.”

And with that, Sherlock dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor and spread himself out on all fours.

God, it was the most erotic thing John had ever seen. Sherlock undulated his hips, practically modelling for him, displaying his body to best effect for John, _for John_. John’s hand tightened around his cock and he thrust up into it, so slick and hot. It was so easy to imagine, taking two handfuls of Sherlock’s delectable arse, spreading those cheeks wide, sinking into his tight hole—and then Sherlock spread his legs farther, let his knees slide apart on the kitchen floor, buried his face in his folded arms and ground himself down against the floor. The muscles of his arse flexed with each thrust and it was so bloody hot, so wanton and dirty, and John stroked himself faster, felt his balls tighten—

His orgasm drove the air from his lungs, his hips arching up off the chair as his release spilled hot over his hand. John barely held in a long, filthy moan as he pulled himself through each shock of pleasure, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s gorgeous arse as he rutted against the floor with rhythmic huffing groans. At the sound of John’s release, Sherlock thrust once, twice, then stilled with a faint, higher pitched gasp.

They sat in silence for a moment, Sherlock sprawled out and panting under the kitchen table, John slumped boneless in his chair, his softening prick tucked back in his pants.

“Oh!” Sherlock said suddenly, and leapt to his feet, brandishing a pen in his left hand. “You were right, John. I did drop something. Thank you.”

John blinked, blinked again, and burst into giggles.

 

* * *

 

It was only the spectacular orgasm that allowed John to fall asleep at all that night. He woke up painfully early with his heart hammering, his stomach twisting itself into knots. There could be no doubt about what happened the previous day. He and Sherlock had gotten off together, deliberately, and with full knowledge of what the other was doing. In the moment, it had been perfect and natural and gloriously hot. Now, in the five A.M. darkness, alone in his room, fear took hold of John Watson and forced his heart into his throat.

What if it was just sex?

It hadn’t occurred to him to worry before. He’d been so focused on hiding his physical desires from Sherlock, then sharing them, that he hadn’t had time to wonder whether Sherlock shared his emotional desires as well. When Sherlock woke, they’d begin the final phase of the “experiment”. But…

_I don’t know if I can do this._

John tossed and turned for another thirty minutes, then finally gave up and ran himself a scorching hot shower. He took care to wash thoroughly, then brushed his teeth and dressed in his nicest navy boxer briefs and his favorite dressing gown. Comb, deodorant, wascologne too much? Yes, definitely too much, skip the cologne. Too obvious. He stared himself down in the mirror with his palm pressed over his aching heart.

Then the light clicked on in Sherlock’s bedroom, and John fled to the kitchen to brace himself with a cup of tea. His chair, typically a welcome source of comfort, kicked up a tiny thrill of fear in his gut as he sat, facing the kitchen table once again.

When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, damp from the shower and wrapped in nothing but his white bedsheet, John had to close his eyes to get himself under control. His cock responded automatically, of course, how could it not… but his chest also tightened painfully. He took a breath, another, then opened his eyes and looked over the rim of his mug to take in Sherlock’s expression. Sherlock gave him a tiny, vulnerable smile and turned his back to John, facing the kitchen table but not bending over it yet. He ran a long, elegant finger over its edge, then took a deep breath.

“Time to record my final results for this experiment,” he said quietly.

John swallowed a hard lump in his throat. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped, and John’s eyes went wide. _No, no, can’t let him think_ —

“Would you like some help with the last phase of the experiment?” John said, pressing on before he could doubt himself. “I’d like to. Help you out.”

Sherlock released a shuddering breath, then nodded, still facing away. John stood up from his chair and took a few hesitant steps toward the kitchen, toward Sherlock’s gorgeous bare shoulders and dripping curls. He was so achingly beautiful, but…

Sherlock nodded again, to himself, and let the sheet drop a bit as he leaned forward over the table—

John rushed the last few steps and stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Sherlock, wait.”

Sherlock’s muscles tensed under his touch. No, no, it was going all wrong, he had to show him, had to…

With the gentlest of touches, John dragged his fingers over Sherlock’s skin, from the long lines of his throat, down his well-muscled arms, and slowly, slowly, around his exposed torso to place his hands over the man’s heart. He pressed forward, burying his nose in Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut. _Breathe. Breathe._

The pulse under his palms thudded furiously. John took another moment to calm his own racing heart, then ever-so-gently moved his hands to Sherlock’s sides and turned him around.

Sherlock’s eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth a tight, unhappy line, and it broke John’s heart. They were the same in this, too. He knew. It was time for Sherlock to know.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

A sharp breath. Sherlock shook his head, kept his eyes resolutely shut. So John did the only thing he could think of. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands, brushed his thumbs over those unbelievable cheekbones, and guided Sherlock’s mouth down to his. And kissed him.

Sherlock gasped into his mouth, trembled under his fingertips, but John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s again, and again, sweet closed-mouth kisses that showed him he was loved, how he was _so_ loved. The ache in John’s chest cracked open, flooded his system, such affection and longing and _wanting_ for this man, fearfully and triumphantly exposed, laid bare. Gradually, Sherlock began to kiss back, to tilt his head and slot their mouths more firmly together, so John released his hold on Sherlock’s face and let his hands drift back down, over shoulders and chest, around his back to pull him close. Sherlock broke off, pressed his forehead against John’s, gasping for air.

“You want this,” he said, finally lifting his own arms to wind around John’s waist. “I knew you were interested in… at least…”

“Yes, that’s true. That I’m interested in that. _Obviously_ ,” John said in his best Sherlock voice, his cock plenty interested in the proceedings already. But he smiled his most real and open smile to make sure Sherlock understood the truth: “But that’s not _all_ I want.”

Sherlock’s resulting expression was breathtaking. So sweet and surprised, and as honestly happy as John had ever seen him. He tightened his hold on John’s waist and buried his face in John’s neck, peppering his shoulder and pulse point with kisses.

“Me too, John,” he murmured against John’s jawline. “I want it all.”

“Thank God,” John gasped, seizing Sherlock’s mouth in a bruising kiss, much more forceful than before. Sherlock gave back just as good, bringing their hips into alignment just as he slipped his tongue into John’s mouth. Their tongues twined and slid, falling from sweet and expressive to filthy in a matter of seconds. They broke apart, gasping for breath, and John couldn’t help the laugh that rose from his chest.

“But honestly, Sherlock, you’ve been teasing me with that bloody gorgeous arse of yours for days. Years, if I’m honest,” John said, sliding his hand down to cup Sherlock’s arse through the sheet. “And I’ll be damned if I’m not going to have my way with it now.”

“Yes, please, John,” Sherlock groaned into his ear. “But first…”

Then he slipped through John’s arms, and a warm, wet heat engulfed John’s cock before he could even process what had happened. Sherlock was on his knees, one hand pulling down the front of John’s pants, the other gripping the base of John’s cock while he worked his tongue over the sensitive head. John’s hand shot out to grab hold of the nearest chair back— _holy God damn_...

Sherlock took John’s cock in until his mouth met his hand around the base, then hollowed out his cheeks for a slow drag back to the tip. John resisted for as long as he could, then caved to the need to look down and watch. A flurry of sparks burned low in his stomach at the sight of Sherlock’s perfect lips wrapped around his prick. He cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands, brushed his thumbs over hollowed cheeks, sharp cheekbones, the stretch at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth where his hard cock disappeared… then it was too much, _too much_ , and he pulled back, his cock slipping from Sherlock’s lips with a wet sound.

His fingers bit into Sherlock’s muscled shoulders as he yanked the man to his feet, spun him around, and bent him over the table, grinding his hips against Sherlock’s barely-covered arse. A shocked groan rumbled from where Sherlock’s head lay buried in the crook of his arm. Sherlock arched his back, just like he had the night before, working his arse back against John’s cock with rough, filthy slides—until John snapped, tore the sheet away from Sherlock’s body and grabbed two handfuls of luscious bare flesh **.**

“God, Sherlock,” John gasped, spreading himself out over Sherlock’s back to mouth at his shoulder blades. “One of these days, I want—” and he canted his hips, dragging his bare cock over Sherlock’s hole “—to be so deep inside you, to fuck you right here over this table, watch your arse bounce on my cock,” he said, shocking even himself with the obscene words. Sherlock moaned, _loud_ , ground himself back as if he could make it happen just like that, chasing John’s cock as he pulled away.

But John stepped back, let his dressing gown slip to the floor and knelt on it, with a light but sharp smack for Sherlock’s bare arse on his way down. The sting drew a ragged gasp from Sherlock, who John could see was already impossibly hard and leaking.

“You like that, hmm?” John asked, tracing his fingertips ever-so-lightly over Sherlock’s skin before treating him to another, firmer smack. Sherlock’s moans took on a desperate edge, his hips rolling in search of friction, of release.

The sight of Sherlock, so wanton and writhing and desperate, pushed John over the edge of control. He grabbed Sherlock’s arse in both hands and squeezed, pulled his cheeks apart, spread him open, and licked a firm stripe over Sherlock’s tight hole. Sherlock’s frantic cry was so loud John worried for half a second that Mrs. Hudson would come running. But he couldn’t care, not when Sherlock was pressing his arse back into John’s face, demanding as always, needing more, _more_.

John’s cock throbbed between his legs at Sherlock’s obvious desperation. He wanted this, actually wanted it _with John_ , and John was only too happy to provide. He worked his tongue over the puckered ridges of Sherlock’s entrance, teasing the muscles looser and massaging the hot flesh under his hands until his could press his tongue inside, taste Sherlock’s heat. Sherlock’s hips stuttered into a short, furious rhythm, fucking himself on the tip of John’s tongue until his cries became one continuous string of breathy moans.

“Touch yourself,” John gasped, then bent back to his task, winding Sherlock up as tight as he could go. Sherlock fisted his cock for barely thirty seconds before he started to lose his rhythm, his cries rising higher, and John stabbed his tongue as deep as it could go, once, twice, and pressed a knuckle tight up against Sherlock’s perineum—and Sherlock _shattered_. He spilled over his fist, splattering the underside of kitchen table with his release and dribbling onto the floor, his knees buckling at the force of it all.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” John chanted, scraping his teeth over Sherlock’s arse cheek and listening to the glorious gasps and moans Sherlock wrung from himself as he came down. John was so close, his cock painfully hard and only a few good strokes away from his own end.

He stumbled to his feet and took himself in one hand, spreading Sherlock’s cheeks with the other, and the sight of that wet, fluttering hole was nearly enough on its own. He pressed the leaking head of his cock there, dragging it through his saliva, feeling every twitch of muscle and reveling in the heat. It was so easy to imagine, sinking in, filling Sherlock’s arse with his cock. He stroked himself hard, his rhythm fast and brutal, but it was Sherlock’s rocking hips that finally drove him over the edge, pressing back and back until his relaxed entrance dragged hot and slick over the tip of John’s cock.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” he groaned, and his orgasm crashed over him, intense and hot and _unbelievably_ good. He watched, slack-jawed and shaky, as his come shot all over Sherlock’s wet hole, dripping down his crack in a way that was both filthy and absolutely gorgeous. He dragged his middle finger through a bit of it and pushed it into Sherlock, sinking just the tip of his finger inside, slick with it. Sherlock gasped and rocked back against his hand, but John withdrew.

“Later,” he said, out of breath. “Definitely later. Oh my God, Sherlock, that was…”

“Bloody phenomenal,” Sherlock finished, his face still buried in his arms on the table. “I want to stand up and kiss you, but I think this table is all that’s holding me up.”

“Too right,” John agreed. “I think I have a new fondness for this table.”

“And the chair placement?” Sherlock asked, his voice all light innocence.

John laughed and tugged at Sherlock’s shoulders, drawing him up and around to face him. Their legs were unsteady, but they clung to each other for balance and brought their lips together again and again for lazy, lingering kisses. John dragged the tip of his nose up Sherlock’s jaw and murmured low into his ear:

“I think I like this new arrangement.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> If that didn't send you screaming, I'd love for you to check out [my other works](http://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=kudos_count&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=0&user_id=Itsallfine)! 
> 
> And as always, more on tumblr at [librarylock](http://librarylock.tumblr.com/). Thank you for reading!


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